


Blank Space

by madeofbees



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Awkward Harry, Banter, Draco doesn't know how to have feelings, Draco is a nightmare dressed like a daydream, Draco is an immature prat, Drarry, Fighting, Florean's, Fluffy, Getting Together, Harry Has A Temper, Hermione is the only clever one, Jealousy, M/M, Mild Angst, More Fighting, Mostly just Harry and Draco, Only brief appearances from Ron and Hermione though, Post-War, Silly, apologizing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-06
Updated: 2015-03-08
Packaged: 2018-03-16 13:23:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3489836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/madeofbees/pseuds/madeofbees
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry and Draco run into each other at Starbucks six years after the war and decide to go get ice cream a few days later. A getting-together story, filled with silliness and fighting and fluff and possibly sexytimes. Written around the song Blank Space.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Verse 1

**Author's Note:**

> _Nice to meet you, where you been?_   
>  _I could show you incredible things_   
>  _Magic, madness, heaven, sin_   
>  _Saw you there and I thought_   
>  _Oh my God, look at that face_   
>  _You look like my next mistake_   
>  _Love's a game, wanna play?_   
>    
>  _New money, suit and tie_   
>  _I can read you like a magazine_   
>  _Ain't it funny, rumors fly_   
>  _And I know you heard about me_   
>  _So hey, let's be friends_   
>  _I'm dying to see how this one ends_   
>  _Grab your passport and my hand_   
>  _I can make the bad guys good for a weekend_   
> 

**1**

“Malfoy?”

The name was out of Harry’s mouth before he fully registered that yes, in fact, he was looking at Draco Malfoy. Six years after the war, six years of working as an Auror, six years of the Malfoys exiling themselves to who knows where, and now Draco Malfoy was in a Starbucks in muggle London.

It was, undeniably, Malfoy. He spun, coffee in hand, perfect hair swishing just so across his forehead, seemingly just as surprised as Harry.

“Potter?”

Harry didn’t know how to proceed. Surprise had knocked all higher function from his mind, and all he could think was _oh my god, look at that face_. Exile had been exceedingly kind to Malfoy, not that anything had ever been unkind to his appearance. His eyes were as piercing as ever, grey slate demanding, demanding _everything_ , just demanding; high, sharp cheekbones and an aquiline, almost delicate nose; his mouth, parted slightly in surprise, lips heaven and sin at the same time.

Merlin.

Malfoy smirked. Pure sin, no heaven whatsoever. “Cat got your tongue, Potter?”

Harry flushed. “I thought you were in America,” he said, though he thought no such thing. He needed to say something, and it was as good a place as any.

“South America,” Malfoy corrected. “Buenos Aires, if you’re interested. Are you going to order, or just stand there like a ponce?”

Harry’s blush darkened. He’d forgotten completely where he was, and hadn’t registered that he was next in line. He stammered out the latest seasonal latte, reading from the sign behind the barista, and joined Malfoy by the pick up counter.

“So,” Harry said lamely. “Where’ve you—how, sorry, how’ve you been?”

Malfoy shrugged elegantly, a hint of a smirk once again gracing his lips. Even that was elegant, of course, everything he did was. Harry briefly wondered if he was dreaming; it would hardly be the first time Malfoy had made an appearance, though then he was usually Draco, and they were never in a coffee shop.

“Oh, madness, magic, the usual. And you, oh chosen one? Working for the Ministry, I hear. Ever the golden boy.”

“It’s, er. What I—wanted, to do.” _Brilliant_ , Harry thought bitterly. “I mean, catching dark wiz—” He glanced around, but nobody was paying them any attention. “Criminals, y’know. Kind of my thing.”

“Indeed.” Malfoy sipped his drink, keeping his eyes locked on Harry’s. It was intoxicating. “Well, I should be off.”

Harry waited for him to leave, but he didn’t. Something hung in the air between them.

“Fancy a coffee?” he blurted.

Malfoy raised an eyebrow. “I’ve got one, thanks.”

Harry blushed again. Of course he did, they were in a coffee shop.

“Later, I mean. Another day.”

Malfoy studied him for a few moments before answering. “Alright.”

 _This is a mistake_ , Harry thought.

“Florean’s?” he said instead.

That something was back, this time in Malfoy’s eyes. “Ice cream is hardly the same as coffee. Sounds almost like a date.”

“I barely know you,” Harry said, which wasn’t a proper response at all. “And they’ve got coffee.”

Malfoy considered, then held out a hand. Harry stared at it blankly. “Nice to meet you,” he said. “And my name is Draco, Draco Malfoy. Since you hardly know me, I thought you might’ve forgotten.”

“Harry.” He took Malfoy’s hand—Merlin it was soft—and shook briefly before pulling away. Physical contact seemed dangerous. Treacherous, even, like it might betray him without his noticing. He liked it, though. “Wednesday afternoon? I get off early.”

“I can do three,” Malfoy replied. “Maybe three-thirty.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Still have to seem important, eh?”

Malfoy’s smirk turned coy. “I _am_ , important. _Harry_.” He drew out the name like something sinful, and Harry had to work to maintain eye contact. “I’ll see you then.”

“Bye,” Harry said, having forgotten any other words. Malfoy swept out of the shop, and he stared after him, wondering exactly what had happened. He might’ve stood there forever had the barista not called his name, reminding him what he had been doing. Still wondering if he was in a dream, Harry took his drink and left.

**2**

Harry was five minutes late. He hadn’t meant to be, he appreciated punctuality and prided himself on his, but a luncheon with the Minister of Magic and the Prime Minister of England had run late, and it wasn’t like he could beg out to go see his high school nemesis. As a result, he was entirely overdressed for the occasion, decked out in a new suit and tie he’d bought specifically for the lunch. He wasn’t one for fancy events, and as such his wardrobe was lacking. He’d felt stuffy at 10 Downing; now he just looked ridiculous.

Malfoy didn’t help. He burst into laughter when he saw Harry, and Harry would have been angry if it hadn’t occurred to him that he didn’t think he’d ever seen Malfoy laugh before. It suited him surprisingly well, by which Harry meant _oh my god, look at that face_. He was gorgeous, stunning, radiant, and Harry wondered that he could pick up exactly where his feelings had left off when he’d last seen Malfoy.

“Shove it,” he muttered, yanking out the chair opposite Malfoy’s and plunking himself in. “I had a lunch meeting.”

“With the Prime Minister himself?” Malfoy asked, still laughing. “Merlin, you look—”

“Yes, actually,” Harry interrupted, and the look of shock on Malfoy’s face was worth the ridicule. “Kingsley and the Prime Minister. Muggle-wizarding relations, keeping them in the dark.”

“ _Nouveau riche_ ,” Malfoy muttered under his breath, rolling his eyes. “You look like a prat.”

“Well you sound like one,” Harry shot back, and yes, he had regressed completely to his high school relationship.

At that moment a waiter stepped in, and Harry ordered a latte and a chocolate mint double scoop cone while Malfoy got a cappuccino and lavender-mint in a cup.

“Can you bee any more pompous?” Harry asked, amused, all ill-will gone.

“Excuse me for having a refined palate,” Malfoy sniffed, smiling slightly. “You are aware of the consequences of our little tryst, _si_? Reporters have been _flocking_ to me since I’ve returned. I’m surprised you were surprised to see me.”

“I don’t read the papers,” Harry replied sharply. He closed his eyes briefly. “Sorry. Sore subject. You of all people should know what they say about me.”

Malfoy made a strangled noise, something Harry thought was probably a suppressed laugh. “Perhaps. Rumors do fly.”

“You were cleared,” Harry said suddenly. “I mean, about people seeing us together. So what if they do? We’re friends.”

“Are we now?” Malfoy asked softly, and Harry’s stomach flipped. “Why not. Let’s be friends. In any case, I was referring to the fact that the two hottest eligible bachelors in London are having ice cream together, and they both happen to be gay…”

Their drinks and ice creams arrived, and Harry nearly dropped the cone that was handed to him. “You’re gay?”

Malfoy laughed. “ _Si, señor._ Most certainly. Not all rumors are false.”

“Sorry, I’m behind in Argentinian gossip,” Harry replied, still feeling somewhat dazed. Not that there hadn’t been rumors at Hogwarts, and by rumors he meant that he knew for a fact Malfoy had fucked a fifth year Ravenclaw their sixth year—the perks of stalking him, Harry supposed—but he also knew he’d slept with half the female students, and he’d assumed—thought—tried to convince himself, really, that Malfoy was straight with a penchant for experimentation. If he was gay, that meant…

“It’s really not that interesting, Harry,” Malfoy said, and Harry started. He hadn’t thought they’d actually be using first names. “What do you care who I like to bugger?”

“I don’t,” Harry replied automatically. “Bugger whoever you want.”

“Hmm.”

Harry spared a glance at Malfoy, who had his ice cream spoon in his mouth and was sucking on it thoughtfully. His stomach flipped again, and a drizzle of ice cream dripped onto his hand. He licked it off hurriedly, and Malfoy smiled coyly around his spoon.

“You know, I’ve only been back for a week or so,” Malfoy said after slowly sliding the spoon out of his mouth. “And yet I’ve already set my sights on my next _ex novio_.”

“Ex?” Harry echoed.

“My next mistake,” Malfoy rephrased. He dipped his spoon into his ice cream and held it out to Harry. “Want to play?”

Harry’s insides disappeared. “This is a mistake.”

“Want to play?” Malfoy repeated softly, and Harry reached out to take the spoon. Malfoy smirked, shaking his head, moving the spoon just out of reach, and Harry realized he wanted to feed him the bite.

Harry licked his lips. He didn’t know what he wanted. He wanted Malfoy, he did know that. But games weren’t his thing, they never had been, he’d only had one serious relationship since Hogwarts and everything about it had been amicable, nothing like what was bound to happen with Malfoy. It would end in flames, he was sure. It wasn’t just a mistake, it would be a train wreck. It was _Malfoy_ , for Merlin’s sake.

…which was the point, it was Malfoy, and Harry had been in love with him for considerably longer than he cared to admit, and whatever sort of game Malfoy had in mind was not what Harry wanted.

He wanted Malfoy.

…then again.

It had been a long time. Malfoy had changed. Sixth year at Hogwarts, what would have been Harry’s seventh year when he’d saved his life, at the trials when he’d testified in exchange for immunity for himself and his family. And Harry was a good influence, he supposed. Maybe he could smooth out whatever rough edges remained.

 _Savior complex_ , a voice that sounded remarkably like Rita Skeeter whispered in the back of his head. _Always saving the bad guy, needing to be the hero. Not to mention propping yourself up next to said bad guy to make sure you look good. My, my, Harry, what_ are _you thinking?_

Harry leaned forward and closed his lips around the spoon. Malfoy grinned as he sat back up and the ice cream melted in his mouth.

“Take my hand,” Malfoy said. “We’ll make a pretty picture, don’t you think?”

Harry did, hesitantly. Warm fingers closed around his and, surprisingly, he didn’t hear any shutter sounds. He thought about looking around for silent cameras but he couldn’t look away from Malfoy’s eyes.

Harry wanted this.

“Have a passport?” Malfoy asked quietly. “We should weekend in Buenos Aires.”

 _A weekend_ , Harry thought. _I can make the bad guys good for a weekend._

“Let’s go.”

 


	2. Chorus 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _So it's gonna be forever_   
>  _Or it's gonna go down in flames_   
>  _You can tell me when it's over_   
>  _If the high was worth the pain_   
>  _Got a long list of ex-lovers_   
>  _They'll tell you I'm insane_   
>  _'Cause you know I love the players_   
>  _And you love the game_
> 
>  
> 
> _'Cause we're young and we're reckless_  
>  _We'll take this way too far_  
>  _It'll leave you breathless_  
>  _Or with a nasty scar_  
>  _Got a long list of ex-lovers_  
>  _They'll tell you I'm insane_  
>  _But I've got a blank space, baby_  
>  _And I'll write your name_

**3**

It was Saturday. They'd been in Buenos Aires since Friday night.

Harry lay on his back, naked, next to Draco, also naked. Draco seemed completely comfortable, arms folded behind his head, smiling lazily at nothing in particular. The very definition of breezy.

Harry was considerably less comfortable. He didn’t know what they were doing, and he didn’t like it. He’d known this before going to Argentina, before taking the offered bite of ice cream, but that had seemed hazy and not quite real; this, on the other hand, was all too real, and he didn’t know how to handle it. He wanted to ask what this was, what _they_ were, but that seemed like a horrible idea. Why going to Buenos Aires for the weekend was easier than asking if they were together wasn’t something Harry wanted to examine too closely.

“Stop it,” Draco said, and Harry rolled on his side to look at him. His face, preferably, because if he let his eyes wander they were definitely not going to be talking.

“Stop what?”

Draco glanced at him. “Thinking.”

“I’m not thinking,” Harry replied petulantly. “I mean—”

Draco groaned. “No. Don’t finish that sentence. We’re young and we’re reckless, we don’t have to think. Just enjoy yourself.” Draco gave him a coy smile. “You certainly seemed to be enjoying yourself.”

“Don’t you think this is a little far?” Harry asked, knowing he shouldn’t. “Argentina? After one sort of date and not seeing each other for six years?”

Draco shrugged. “I told you. Young and reckless. Who cares? I’m having fun.” He moved suddenly, gracefully, cat-like, pushing Harry onto his back and straddling him. “You can tell me when it’s over if it was worth it.”

Harry’s stomach jerked as his cock twitched. He didn’t want to think about over, didn’t want to think about how Draco had already classified him as a mistake, as an ex.

“Who says it’ll be over?” Harry asked, feeling a little reckless himself. “It could be forever.”

Draco gave him a loaded smile he didn’t understand. “Could be.” He leaned down and stole a kiss, deep and rough, pain shooting out from where he bit Harry’s lip that turned into sparks of pleasure. “C’mon. I want to play. I didn’t invite you halfway across the world to talk about feelings.”

Harry grabbed Draco’s wrists and after a brief struggle had him pinned beneath him. His heart was slamming, blood rushing through his veins, and he couldn’t think anymore even if he’d wanted to.

“This is insane.”

“Uh huh, all my ex-lovers will tell you so.” Draco licked his lips, heavy-lidded, sex-clouded eyes pouring into Harry’s. Harry wanted to panic, because Draco had always been able to read him, and what if he _saw_ his feelings, that would be so much worse than talking about them. So instead he dipped down and sunk his teeth into Draco’s neck, earning a throaty moan in response. It didn’t take long at all for him to be breathless, and Harry tumbled after him.

**4**

Harry took Monday off to recover from Buenos Aires, and the single day without Draco unravelled him, like he was falling apart at the seams. He forgot that he’d had dinner plans with Ron and Hermione, and had shown up at their flat late, soot in his hair, and only after a Floo call.

“This is insane,” Ron said, stabbing at his spaghetti. “Malfoy, really? Merlin, Harry. _Really_? He was in town for a _day_ , and you jumped his bones.”

“I didn’t,” Harry replied a little sheepishly. “The other way, he was the one who—”

“I don’t want to hear about it,” Ron interrupted.

“He asked me out,” Harry said irritably. “That’s all I meant. He said—said, uh.” He trailed off, because Draco hadn’t asked him out, not really. He’d wanted to play. He’d wanted a mistake. Harry wasn’t to keen on recounting the specifics. “He started it. This thing between us. He started it.”

“You sound like my brothers,” Ron grumbled. “ _George started it, it was Ginny’s fault, Charlie pulled my hair_ …”

“Shove off,” Harry muttered, because he knew he sounded like that, and he wasn’t particularly proud of it.

“Frankly, I’m surprised it took you this long.”

Ron and Harry both turned to stare at Hermione, who had been uncharacteristically quiet. Worryingly quiet, Harry now realized. She frowned at them the way she did when they were being an idiot and _why_ was she the only clever one in London, it was _such_ a burden.

“It was textbook, really, the way you two went after each other. Getting in fights, calling each other names, practically pulling each other’s hair. Then the stalking, I’d say fifth year but really, you’ve always gone out of your way to run into each other. You can go on about how he was on the Inquisitorial Squad and you were convinced he was a Death Eater, but what about all the run-ins in the halls, or on the pitch, or the grounds? You’ve been obsessed with each other since first year.”

“I—I have not!” Harry exclaimed. “When I came out, after Ginny, I told you, it was just then, I’d just realized, after everything at the Manor, and the Battle, and the trials, it wasn’t since _first year_ , and—and wait, no, he’s never been obsessed with me, it was the other way—when it was, I mean, and it wasn’t always, but if you want to call me obsessed, that’d be me, not him.”

Hermione raised an eyebrow in amusement. “Do you have any idea how little sense that made?”

“It made perfect sense!” Harry took a very large bite of spaghetti to avoid admitting that he was very aware of how nonsensical he sounded.

“Remember how we kept trying to get you to write him?” Ron asked. “My whole _family_ kept at it? I mean, we let it go after you nearly hexed off George’s other ear, but blimey, Harry. We wouldn’t’ve done it if we hadn’t thought you’d had a shot.”

“Even Dumbledore thought so,” Hermione said.

Harry upset his pumpkin juice, soaking the rest of their meal in the drink. Hermione sighed, banishing the mess, while Ron eagerly went to go order pizza.

“It’s true,” she said. “You know I talk to him sometimes, when I visit Hogwarts. He’s quite in favor of the idea.”

“You—he—” Harry stammered, trying to find the right word. “ _Meddlesome!_ He’s _meddlesome_ , and it’s none of his business, and he’s not even properly alive, it’s a stupid portrait, and anyway, he—he, er—” Because Dumbledore tended to be right most of the time, and of course he was more than a stupid portrait, and Harry wasn’t sure how to argue his point.

“It’s just something to consider,” Hermione said. Ron came back to the table, and she gave him a suspicious glare. “You got anchovies, didn’t you?” Ron grinned sheepishly, and she sighed quietly. “Ronald…”

“I’ll make it up to you,” he said, and Harry quickly interrupted before Ron could go into the details of how.

“You haven’t seen him since he’s been back,” he said. “Draco, you haven’t. You’ve got no idea who he is or is not obsessed with, or what his feelings might be. I haven’t got a clue, and I’m the one shagging him.”

“Didn’t he tell you that he had his eye on you since he came back?” Hermione asked. “That sounds an awful lot like he’d been planning, and then he swept you away to an exotic land all while making absolutely certain he seemed so casual it borders on crass. I wouldn’t be surprised at all if it was more than, what was his word? A game?”

“She’s got a point,” Ron said. “Not that I approve or anything, but she does have a point. And I’m not just saying that because of the anchovies.”

“You haven’t seen him,” Harry repeated. He worried his napkin so he wouldn’t have to look at his friends, so they might now see how much he wanted to believe them and how certain he was they were wrong. “And you haven’t seen him with me. It is a game, that’s all. A mistake, remember?”

There were a few moments of silence, and then Hermione asked, “Why did you say yes? If you’re so sure it’s going to crash and burn?”

Harry didn’t know.

He did, and Draco was the one who said it.

“Because we’re young and we’re reckless.”

Hermione smiled a small, I’m always right smile. “We.”

Harry glanced at her. “Sorry, what?”

“You said we.”

Harry supposed he had.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my god two whole days in a row! I told you I had muse :O


	3. Verse 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Cherry lips, crystal skies_   
>  _I could show you incredible things_   
>  _Stolen kisses, pretty lies_   
>  _You’re the king, baby, I’m your queen_   
>  _Find out what you want_   
>  _Be that girl for a month_   
>  _Wait, the worst is yet to come, oh no_
> 
> _Screaming, crying, perfect storms_   
>  _I can make all the tables turn_   
>  _Rose garden filled with thorns_   
>  _Keep you second guessing like_   
>  _“Oh my God, who is she?”_   
>  _I get drunk on jealousy_   
>  _But you’ll come back each time you leave_   
>  _‘Cause, darling, I’m a nightmare dressed like a daydream_

**5**

They had been together for a month.

Harry was frankly shocked. He hadn’t expected much past Argentina, hadn’t _let_ himself expect anything. Instead, Draco had shown up at the Ministry on Tuesday and taken him out for lunch. The rumors flew like never before, but they died down once the public seemed to realize that yes, Harry and Draco were a couple, and yes, it was going to stay that way.

Not that Harry himself believed that, but. At least they weren’t on the front page anymore.

Harry Flooed home on a Thursday and found his flat smelling like barbecue.

“Draco?” he called, kicking off his shoes and setting down his briefcase. “Are you cooking?”

“I cook.” Draco’s voice floated in from the kitchen. “I do lots of things.”

Harry smiled to himself. That was certainly true. “Barbecue?” he asked, shrugging out of his cloak. “Inside?”

Draco appeared at the doorway holding a glass of red wine. “Why not?”

Harry’s smile widened. “You do know that’s ridiculous, right?”

Draco frowned, not that he looked upset. “Nothing about me is ridiculous,” he sniffed. “I need to go mind the grill. You and your antiquated ideas of _parilla_ can wait for me here.” He swept out of the room, Harry following.

“I love when you speak Spanish,” Harry said lowly, coming into Draco’s space, crowding him as he flipped the steaks. “Have you any idea how sexy you are?”

“Yes,” Draco replied with a self-satisfied smile. “Mind your hands, you’ll burn yourself.”

Harry stilled his wandering hands, which had ended up on Draco’s hips without him realizing. “What’s gotten into you? You’re already here when I get home from work, you’re cooking dinner, that’s the good wine glass.”

Draco just continued to smile and didn’t say anything. Harry leaned forward and kissed his cheek, then stole a proper kiss that Draco ended by swatting his hand with the barbecue tongs.

“Leave me alone, I’ll burn the meat,” he said haughtily. “There’ll be plenty of time for that later.”

A twinge of nerves shot through Harry. He knew it was stupid, he _knew_ it, but after the long ago comment about Argentinian gossip, he’d picked up a few back issues of the _Buenos Aires Gaceta_ and, well. It turned out Draco did have a bit of a reputation. Not that it bothered Harry, not that there had been so much as a hint of anything since they’d been together, but sometimes Draco was elusive, and sometimes Harry got curious.

Curious was a kinder word for worried for no reason, one that he preferred.

Harry kissed his cheek once more before heading over to set the table. “Have any plans for the weekend?”

“Not particularly,” Draco replied. “It’s been a month since we went to Buenos Aires; do you feel the need to celebrate what you’d call an anniversary?”

Harry’s stomach did interesting, unpleasant things. “You wouldn’t call it that?”

Draco shrugged. “A month since we decided to be a mistake? I suppose.”

Harry neatened the fork he had set down, making certain it was perfectly perpendicular to the edge of the table. “You still think we’re a mistake?”

“No, of course not,” Draco said lightly. “We’re royalty; you’re the king, baby, I’m your queen.”

Harry snorted in spite of himself. “You definitely can be.”

“Even queens should know how to grill a proper steak,” Draco replied. There was a beat of silence, and then: “Is everything okay?”

Caught off guard would be putting it mildly. Harry wasn’t sure if Draco had ever inquired so directly about how he was doing. “I, er. Yeah. It’s fine.”

“That was unconvincing.”

Draco appeared at his side, set a fully loaded plate in front of him, and pecked his jaw. “Sit. Eat. I’ll make you feel better after dinner.”

Harry smiled. “Yeah. And you don’t have to do anything, I’m fine.”

Draco pulled out Harry’s chair, quickly slid a hand down his chest, squeezed his groin, and went back over to the magicked grill for his own steak. Harry dropped into his seat more forcefully than he would’ve liked, chest and cock tingling pleasantly. “What has gotten into you?” he asked again as a glass of wine floated over to him. His finest crystal, and that almost made him anxious again, but he pushed it away.

“What if I like anniversaries?” Draco asked lightly, joining him at the table. “Even if you are the biggest mistake I’ve ever made.”

“Why?” Harry asked, mouth full, trying not to be mildly interested and nothing more. “‘M not a mistake. I’m a _catch_.”

Draco laughed. “You most certainly are, my liege.” He took a small sip of wine. “Maybe you’re not the one who’s the mistake.” Harry choked, and Draco waved him off. “Stop it. Enjoy your steak. A month is no good if you die on me in the middle of dinner.”

Slowly, Harry remembered how to breathe, and he didn’t bring it up again.

**6**

“Who the fuck is Serena Hobday?”

Harry looked up from the letter Hagrid had sent, asking yet again when Harry would be bringing Draco over for tea. “Sorry, what?”

Draco slammed a letter on the table, nearly knocking over Harry’s coffee. “Serena. Hobday.”

Harry took the paper from his hands. “I’ve no idea,” he said, skimming the letter. “Oh, wait, yeah, I remember her. We met at a charity thing a few months ago. She works with Lumos, it’s an organization to help orphans from the war, she mentioned having me go to one of their fundraisers to raise awareness.”

“Seems like it’s a lot more than that,” Draco hissed, snatching the letter back. “‘Dearest Harry…’ ‘That wonderful dinner…’ ‘It would mean the world to me…’”

Harry laughed, then quickly stopped himself at Draco’s expression. “I’m sorry?” he tried. “Really, she means nothing to me. She’s just flattering me to get me to go, get a big name for the event.”

“‘ _Dancing through the night_ …’”

“I didn’t know you then!” Harry exclaimed. “I mean, you weren’t in my life! We weren’t together! I hadn’t heard from you since the trials! I’m sorry if she fancies me, which I don’t think she does, but she’s not your competition! For Merlin’s sake, I’m gay!”

“Oh, so you being gay is the only thing stopping you from fucking some charity groupie?” Draco yelled.

Harry gaped at him. For a split second, before yelling himself. “What is wrong with you? I’m not fucking anyone besides you, and I have no interest in doing so! Not that I’m so keen on you right now, given that you’re being a gigantic bloody prat for absolutely no reason.”

“If it was Seren _o_ Hobday instead of Seren _a_ , you’d be all over him?” Draco continued as if Harry hadn’t said anything. “I put up with an awful lot from your so-called fans, but—”

“I’m not all over anyone!” Harry yelled. “I’m not sleeping around and I’m not having an affair! And _you’ve_ put up with _my_ fans? I’m the one who has an endless parade of Argentinian Adonises waltzing through my life under the guise of your old friends. I’ve seen how they look at you, and it’s not like you aren’t looking back.”

“For fuck’s sake, it’s not an endless bloody parade! And heaven forbid I have friends; just because you wall yourself up in the DMLE and don’t know the meaning of the word doesn’t mean I can’t have a social life.”

“Pablo,” Harry said, holding up a finger and ticking off names. “Sebastian. Jesus. Tomás.”

“ _Hey-zus_ ,” Draco snapped, correcting what they both knew to be a purposeful mispronunciation. “We met at Fashion Week my first year there when I knew nobody and had no life and no friends and no anything. You think I’m going to abandon one of my closest friends just because we’re sleeping together?”

“Is that what we’re doing?” Harry asked, voice cracking, because this was what he was actually upset about, what he hadn’t gotten over, the perfect storm that had been brewing since that day at Florean’s. “Sleeping together? That’s it?”

Draco groaned. “Merlin’s beard, this again? This is _exactly why_ we’re a mistake. What else do you expect me to call us when we’re screaming at each other every other day over my old friends—”

“You mean a perfectly nice witch working for a perfectly good charity,” Harry interrupted.

“But it’s not like either of us are leaving,” Draco continued. “Fuck if I know why but I keep showing up at the Ministry with roses—”

“The last ones had _thorns!_ ” Harry yelled, voice rising to a shriek. “Is it possible to be any more passive-aggressive?”

“Which you _accepted_ ,” Draco screamed, throwing the balled up letter at Harry, who hadn’t even realized he still had it. It hit him square in the face before falling into his lap. It tok a moment for it to sink in, truly sink in, that Draco had _thrown_ something at him and when it did, Harry was up and out of his chair, stalking towards the Floo. Of his own flat, he realized vaguely, but he could just go to Ron and Hermione’s, they’d been seeing enough of him lately.

“You’ll be back!” Draco shrieked after him. “You know why?”

Harry spun around. “Because it’s my flat and I live here?”

Draco smirked, walking over to Harry like a cat stalking its prey. “Because, _darling_ , even though I’m a nightmare, I’m still your high school daydream.”

Harry tried to protest, but Draco kissed him harshly, pushed him away like he’d been the one to initiate it, and went back to the kitchen. Furious and confused and miserable, Harry threw a handful of powder into the fireplace and left.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I only have part of the next chapter written, but updates are probably going to slow down. My grandfather is dying and even though I don't know him almost at all and we were never close, it's still, y'know. A big thing. I visited him today (which was frankly terrifying) and we don't know about the timeline, but yeah. It's soon. :/


	4. Chorus 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _So it's gonna be forever_   
>  _Or it's gonna go down in flames_   
>  _You can tell me when it's over_   
>  _If the high was worth the pain_   
>  _Got a long list of ex-lovers_   
>  _They'll tell you I'm insane_   
>  _'Cause you know I love the players_   
>  _And you love the game_
> 
> _'Cause we're young and we're reckless_   
>  _We'll take this way too far_   
>  _It'll leave you breathless_   
>  _Or with a nasty scar_   
>  _Got a long list of ex-lovers_   
>  _They'll tell you I'm insane_   
>  _But I've got a blank space, baby_   
>  _And I'll write your name_

**7**

Flowers arrived at Ron and Hermione’s later that night. Roses, no thorns. The note was addressed to Scarhead but other than that contained an apology and a promise Harry really, really wanted to believe.

“Don’t,” Ron said as soon as he saw Harry’s expression. “Don’t you dare forgive that wanker again.”

Harry sighed. “It’s not that simple.”

“Yes, Harry, it is,” Ron said. “He treats you like shit, he makes you miserable, and he’s not worth your time.”

“It’s not all that,” Harry said, though even to his own ears he didn’t sound particularly convincing. “There’s a lot of good, too. Like…”

“Like what?” Ron exclaimed.

“Stop yelling at Harry,” Hermione said mildly. “We all know you don’t like Draco but you’re not the one dating him. Let Harry finish.”

Harry had actually been rather glad to be interrupted, because he didn’t know like what. There wasn’t anything to point to, no specific incident to recount that explained the good. It was. Just.

“He likes to cuddle,” he said, looking into his tea, knowing Draco would kill him for revealing such damaging information. “He’ll wake me up just past sunrise so we can cuddle.”

“Just because the morning sex is good, that doesn’t—”

“It’s not sex,” Harry said irritably, cutting off Ron. “I told you. It’s just cuddling. Like, holding hands and lying together and we fall back asleep. We don’t have morning sex, not usually. He’s a complete tosser before coffee.”

“You can hold someone else’s hand,” Ron said, looking vaguely repulsed.

“But it’s more than that,” Harry insisted. “It’s—I don’t know how—what to say, but it’s—”

“You’re in love with him,” Hermione said simply. “You’ve thought so since school, and now you know you are. You can’t just walk away.”

“Yeah,” Harry said, defeated. “Yeah, it’s that.”

“Good lord,” Ron muttered.

“Thanks,” Harry snapped. “It’s not like this isn’t hugely difficult without my best friend turning into a giant prat just because you can’t let go of a grudge.”

“Ooh, how dare I?” Ron asked sarcastically. “He only made our lives—yours included—a living hell for six years, seven if we’d stayed at Hogwarts, it’s not like I can just _forget_ everything he did.”

“Stop it, both of you,” Hermione said just before Harry was going to say some very rude things. “Ron, we all know you can hold a grudge forever, it’s very endearing, but you can stop now. Harry, I know you’re upset, but that’s no reason to take it out on Ron.”

“Sorry,” Harry said, and even though his teeth were clenched, he meant it. Thankfully Ron knew him well enough to know that, and he apologized as well.

“Better,” Hermione said, sounding much more like Mrs. Weasley than she realized. “Now. Harry, have you told Draco how you feel?”

Harry opened his mouth, then closed it. “Um. No.”

Harry watched her attempting to hold back a lecture, and had to stop himself from smiling. “Perhaps you should try that,” she said, sounding strangled.

“He said I’m a mistake,” Harry said. “Repeatedly.”

“You just want me to talk you into it so you can blame me if it backfires,” Hermione accused.

“Well,” Harry stated. “Er. That would be a good idea, don’t you think?”

Hermione groaned, and Ron laughed.

“You’re thinking way too hard about this, mate,” Ron said. “The owl that sent the roses, it’s still here. Send a note to Malfoy, tell him that he is worth your time, sorry I said that, by the way. Or, even better, make it romantic and tell him he’s worth the pain, it sounds like you’re star-crossed lovers, which you basically are. Leave a blank space at the end and ask him if he loves you, right? Then he’s got to be the first to say it, and you’re clear and free.”

“That,” Harry said slowly, “is a brilliant idea. Got any parchment?”

It took almost an hour for the owl to come back, but it was worth the wait. Scribbled, half-crossed out, not exactly answering the question, and completely worth it.

~~ _This is a mistake  
_ _It’s too good, it’s bad, it’s  
_ ~~ _~~I shouldn’t have let you go, I wasn’t thinking, I~~  
_ _Come back._

Harry did.

**8**

A week and a half after the fight—the big one, not the nearly nonstop stream of bickering—they were in Buenos Aires again. Things had been good, so good, and Harry was having trouble believing it was real. They were like a real couple, almost. Draco took Harry out for lunch, when Harry could get out from under the pile of paperwork and wasn’t on a raid. Draco insisted that reestablishing the Malfoy name in London was working, that it was a full-time job, which Harry thought somewhere between ridiculous and endearing. He’d taken to giving Draco foot rubs in the evening; he was on his feet all day, even if it was because he was furnishing his new apartment or buying half of Harrods. They held hands in public. There were hurried goodbye morning kisses as Harry rushed to the Ministry. He’d even persuaded Draco into agreeing to luncheon with Hagrid, though they hadn’t set a date.

Officially, they were still a mistake.

Harry was decently sure they were something else.

They were in bed, which was how they spent most of their time in Buenos Aires. Draco was dozing, one hand behind his head, the other resting on his chest. Harry lay on his side, watching Draco, continually marveling how peaceful he looked when he slept. Only the ghosts of sharp edges and premature worry lines remained, the rest of his skin smooth and creamy, porcelain bronzed lightly by the Argentinian sun.

Well.

The Dark Mark remained on his left forearm. It was fading, more of a smudged charcoal than the jet black it had been, but it was still there. They didn’t talk about it. Harry thought it would be over the line of mistake into undeniably together, and while toeing that line was part of Draco’s stupid game, pushing him to talk about the worst time in his life probably wasn’t the way to go about it.

Thin, white scars crisscrossed across Draco’s chest, and Harry had talked about those. He’d apologized, or tried to, for that day in the girls’ bathroom, but Draco had cut him off with a laugh.

“Those nasty old scars? I forget they’re even there.”

But something dark had flitted across his face, gone as soon as it appeared, and Harry had known he was lying. There might be time for a real apology, a real conversation, later on, but for now he had to be content with flippancy.

Gently, Harry reached out and traced a line down the biggest of the scars.

Draco’s eyes fluttered open, and Harry wondered, not for the first time, if he ever truly slept. He always seemed right on the edge of wakefulness, and Harry wouldn’t have been at all surprised if it was a learned skill he’d picked up during the war.

“I am beautiful, aren’t I?” Draco said, stretching cat-like in the afternoon sun.

Harry leaned over for a quick kiss and moved his hand away from the scars. “More so if you weren’t so very, very aware of it.”

Draco grinned, arching his body, barely pretending he was still stretching. “But then I couldn’t show off for you, and I do know how you love it.”

“Mm.” Harry trailed his lips down Draco’s jaw, neck, collarbone, and over to the top of the highest scar.

Draco squirmed away. “Unless you want a conversation that I can promise you really, really _don’t_ want, stop it.”

Harry kissed the tip of the scar. “What if I do want to?”

“You don’t,” Draco said flatly. “That’s too far. We’re not doing that.”

Harry sat up, running a hand through his hair, turning away. _Mistake. Ex lover. Stop pretending._ “Fine.”

Draco groaned. “Come on. Do you want me to catalogue every nasty, disgusting scar you’ve gotten over the years?”

Harry glanced at him. “Yours aren’t nasty, and the only disgusting thing about them is what I did to you.”

“Of course mine aren’t, I was talking about yours,” Draco snapped. “Would you just shut up? You—us—we’re supposed to be fun, relaxing, something to look forward to. I’m not dragging the war into it.”

Harry felt a little floaty. He wasn’t sure how to process that. It sounded good, so good, on the surface, that they were an us, that they were only good things, except the world was so much more than an escape. He wanted everything: the high, yes, but the pain and scars as well.

“We can’t—forever,” Harry said, which wasn’t a real sentence. “Avoid it, I mean. The war, the scars, the years of fighting. It’s not going to go away because you don’t want to think about it.”

“What is it about Buenos Aires and you and forever,” Draco grumbled, though he didn’t sound too terribly upset. “You said that last time we were here. Nobody’s saying anything about forever, Potter.”

“Because I’m a mistake,” Harry said, floating gone, feeling nothing but hard, rocky earth beneath his feet. “And mistakes become exes.”

“Obviously,” Draco replied. “Since all we do is fight. Can’t we just get back to fucking?”

Harry closed his eyes for a moment. “There’s more than fighting.”

“Like shagging!” Draco exclaimed. “Just enjoy it while it lasts, alright? I’m here, you’re here, we’re both ready and willing, I’m _very_ ready and _very_ willing…” Harry glanced at him again; Draco was slowly stroking himself, already half-hard. Draco’s eyes sparkled. “If I have to beg for it, I’ll make you pay.”

Harry thought Draco might have said something important, something that betrayed what he was actually feeling, but Harry found he was incapable of higher thought when Draco was spread out before him like this.

“What if I want to pay?” he asked, voice already an octave lower than usual.

Draco grinned again. “That can be arranged.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so tired and my hands are killing me (I have joint problems and it's been SO cold for SO long) so I didn't get any writing done today. I'm going to try to publish tomorrow but if I don't have anything, I don't have anything. I want to write more than anything, but I'm just going to have to take it one day at a time.

**Author's Note:**

> Harry and Draco belong to Our Lord and Savior JK, and Blank Space belongs to Queen T Swift.
> 
> I'm super duper inspired for this right now but, as my Constant Readers*, I'm doing horribly, and I can't promise regular updates. I'll try. Things are settling and I'll try.
> 
> *The phrase Constant Readers belongs to Stephen King


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